


Those to Whom the Law Doesn't Apply.

by arsenicisnaturaltoo



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, First Time, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-23
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-08-28 02:52:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16715190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arsenicisnaturaltoo/pseuds/arsenicisnaturaltoo
Summary: Arthur returns late to hear strange noises coming from John's tent. He must investigate.





	Those to Whom the Law Doesn't Apply.

**Author's Note:**

> Absolutely adore these characters. Please do let me know if you have a request! Pretty good at writing porn but pretty average at writing actual story ;)

Despite what the uninformed would have you believe, the opposite of love is not hate, but indifference. Hatred requires passion, and passion is fiery, riotous, easily misdirected. Arthur Morgan really hated John Marston right now. Hated the stupid huskiness his voice had and how the normal consequences of abandonment don't seem to apply to him. Hated how he had a son and wife who loved him yet seemed not to value them. There were so many reasons to hate him, so many good, hardy reasons to dislike everything about him. Enough to drown out the buried fact that his narrow waist and broad shoulders featured in nightmares that awoke Arthur to be confused yet rock hard in the dark. How every so often, when taking care of the occasional erection that occurred some mornings, his traitorous mind would helpfully remind him how incongruously round John's ass was, such a blatant contrast to his otherwise slim figure, and then run on to detail exactly how good such a thing would feel to the touch. The heart wants what it wants, even the shattered, diminutive heart of the notorious outlaw Arthur Fucking Morgan. 

Camp living is difficult, privacy is a thing of distant memory. They were all good at turning blind eyes and deaf ears to things it might be germane not to notice, in the small ways that those who live outside the law still have their own codes to uphold. So when Arthur returns from a very long day so late it's almost early, he knows he's not supposed to notice the movement coming from within another tent. Quiet, quick movement. He stops to determine which tent, and it's John's. Creeping as noiselessly as he can, he reaches the entrance. Hears a quiet, quickly strangled moan and small, breathy gasps. He's sure he can hear something slightly wet as well. Instantly he's rock hard and torn between being very keen to rip open the tent and ensure that his embarrassment is shared and a tiny bit of wanting to see for his own fascination. He stands there, undecided. Until something occurs to make his decision for him.

"Arthur...." Softly, almost breathed. Well fuck then.

Arthur rips open the door to the tent and simply stops. There he is. John Marston. On his back, shirt askew, pants bunched around one ankle. Pushing two fingers into himself while his other hand strokes his rather impressive cock. Head thrown back, mouth open, eyes closed. Dark hair splayed across the pillow. So much skin on show. 

Clearly hearing the movement, John starts, stares at Arthur. All colour draining from his face. Clearly expecting to be either punched or otherwise ridiculed. "Get out." His hands both still, but he removes neither. A frozen moment where they simply stare at each other. Arthur's face coloured from mortification, and a bit of heat, John's bloodless from shock. 

"You said my name". If nothing else, Arthur is renowned for being able to notice the obvious. His heart is pounding, hyper-aware of every last little sound. The soft bleating of the horses on the edge of camp, the wind whipping through. The laboured, shallow breathing of his rival, who he just caught touching himself, while saying his fucking name. 

That was enough for John to recollect himself. Arthur watches as he slides his fingers out, throws a blanket over himself. Rolls on his side away from Arthur. Says nothing. 

Arthur is too stubborn to be placated like that. He's in shock and really doesn't know what to do, but he's not going to let it go. 

"John, you said my name." 

"I'm sorry" whispered quietly, muffled by the blanket. "I didn't mean anything by it" 

Arthur decides that is a blatant lie and not good enough. So he invites himself inside. Sits on the ground by John's bedroll. Says nothing at all. 

John is clearly uncomfortable enough to try and get him to leave. "Arthur, just get out. Please"

"But you said my name"

John groaned and buried his face into his pillow. Still facing away, entire body tense.

Arthur tries to adjust his trousers as surreptitiously as possible, feeling uncomfortably tight even sitting down. 

"I... I wished it was you, ok?"

Not okay. Very much not okay. They were hardly governed by the laws of the country, but even those had made it pretty clear that was not an okay thing for men to do. In one brothel a lifetime ago, the giggling whore he'd enjoyed brought out an "exotic" illustrated book from France (of course) that detailed all sorts of interesting things both sexes could enjoy with themselves and each other. It had been an eye opening experience. Definitely not something Arthur would want to explore. Definitely not. Regardless of what his traitorous erection wanted.

On the other hand, being a solidly practical man, it's not like anyone would have to know.

"John. Abigail?"

John sighed, resignation and sadness rolling off him in waves. "I love her Arthur, I really do. And Jack of course. This is just.... different. I don't know why" 

Arthur's hatred of John roiled in his stomach and softened. It took a lot to be that honest, that transparent. But to find out he was wanted, something that hadn't happened in years, set his blood alight. And just look at him, vulnerable, aching. Underneath the hardened exterior, Arthur enjoyed being solicitous. There had just been too few opportunities for it in the recent times.

He reaches a hand out to grasp John's shoulder and push down, forcing him to face him. And then, surprised by his own daring, slides his hand upwards to cup John's scarred cheek. John gazes back at him, bewilderment and a touch of water in his eyes, but still steely. Watching him as someone who knows all the considerable flaws of Arthur's soul, yet wants him anyway. 

Slowly, hesitantly, Arthur leans forward and presses his dry, slightly chapped lips to John's. Scared of the response he might receive, not being a man to force himself upon anyone. John starts, but then responds with enthusiasm. Opening his mouth to lightly suck on Arthur's bottom lip and moans into his mouth. And that causes Arthur's control to snap and the air just ignites. 

Arthur slides one hand into John's hair, grabs a full handful and pulls, forcing the man to lift his chin with a gasp so Arthur can lathe his tongue up the side of his neck. Tasting salt and something undefinable. Breathing in the warm muskiness of John. Feeling his heart pounding at his pulse point. The other hand slides down into the neck of John's shirt, stroking prominent collarbones. John seems to have lost the power of speech, only uttering breathy pants. His hands slide over Arthur's back, gripping his shoulders, nails scratching at the back of his vest. No tenderness now, touch roughened by lust. Not quite but almost entirely unlike his experience, where women were to be delicate. 

John certainly wasn’t.

In a sudden rush of movement, John changed direction and went from pulling him closer to pushing him off. Forcing his shoulders off and back, manoeuvring him with surprising strength from such a lithe creature. Positioning Arthur on his back, swinging his leg over the side to sit straddling him. Blanket falling away so reveal miles of slim legs, shirttail falling forward, hiding his erection. Not breaking the kiss as he desperately plunders Arthur’s mouth. Who is past the point of objection at this point, who just wants more. 

That shirt covered ust too much. 

Arthur disengages to learn back, freeing his arms. Grabs the two shirt tails of John’s shirt and just rips them apart. Buttons fly in all directions. The women will be irritated when they would be asked to tack them back on tomorrow, but right now, he couldn’t think of anything less significant. 

John hastily shrugging off his ruined shirt. His chest heaving, eyes heavily lidded. Breathing heavily through his slightly open mouth. Sitting astride a dangerous man, clearly desiring him. Arthur drinking in the sight in front of him. John’s shoulders are broad and marked with scarring, too many to count individually, scars of the petty incidents of childhood and adulthood alike. A light dusting of fine black hair through the centre of his chest, twisted knots of muscles too close to the surface. His proportions are almost comical. Waist barely half the breadth of his shoulders. Every abdominal etched as if from marble. His bare arms slim but strong, the edges clearly defined. Trembling slightly. 

Down further. Nest of dark hair. His cock long and perhaps a touch thin. Straining upwards. So hard it looks painful. Dark, dusky rose, leaking fluid at its tip. 

Far better than he’d dreamed.

Arthur pulls on John’s arm. He crashes his lips down on his, licking into his mouth. John whimpers under his onslaught. There was still some distance between them, especially given Arthur was still fully clothed. 

Far too much.

Arthur gently, carefully, reaches in between their bodies. Grasps John’s aching cock. And with that John presses his forehead to his, sucks air in between his teeth and whines. “Oh god... Arthur” Never done this to another man, the angle is strange. Slow, experimental strokes. Like steel wrapped in warm silk. Such incredibly soft skin. 

John lifts himself up so he’s sitting up on his knees, Arthur never slowing his strokes. Grinding his ass into Arthur’s length encased in painfully restrictive cloth. Seeming to enjoy displaying himself, almost liking the clothing disparity. Vulnerable yet at ease. Something Arthur could never be. 

“Fuck, Marston” Arthur breathes. Elicits a small smile, the scar tissue along his face creasing. He pushes down harder, almost painful. Feels so good.

“Tease” he hisses through gritted teeth.

“I ain’t teasing Arthur” John quipped back. 

John pushes his ass backwards, sliding his hands down Arthur’s chest. Down and down. Arthur watching with a quirked brow. Impressed with his daring. 

His hands stop at his trouser lacings. Glances up at Arthur’s face shyly. “Yeah?” 

Arthur simply nods. With slightly shaking fingers, John unlaces his pants, letting his cock spring free. Grabs it with both hands, Arthur being of similar length but far exceeding in girth. Arthur sighs and lets his head fall back. Letting John set the pace, using one hand to gently roll his balls while the other carefully works the shaft. A sure, firm touch. Intoxicating. 

Out of nowhere, heat. Intense heat. Wetness. Bliss. His eyes snap open, to see John tentatively working his tongue around the head of his cock. Taking it into his mouth. Lightly sucking. Slight scratching of his beard on the shaft. Arthur moans, he really does, he can’t help it. Torn from him without his permission. Never did he think he would get someone willing to do this to him, since he’s seen a picture in that book. From a man as well. It seemed the ultimate form of submission. But John didn’t appear diminished, he seemed empowered. Like he enjoyed lavishing attention on his cock, making delicious sounds. 

It was just too good. His breathing sped up. He rocks his hips into that waiting mouth. Which seems to encourage John, who impetuously slides his mouth the whole way down, until Arthur can feel the end of his throat. “Oh god, boy” he growls. The familiar tightening coils in his stomach, there’s no way he’s going to last. But how could he take things appreciably further if he can’t get hard again. Short term loss, Morgan. 

“John. Stop”. A command. Almost angry. Not at John, at himself. For being the kind of fool with so little restraint he has to refrain entirely. 

John obediently pulls up. “I’m sorry... I’ll get better”. Faced clouded with concern, disappointment. But still. Better? He wants to practice?

“No. You’re fine. You’re too good” Arthur actually smiles. It takes some effort. These aren’t muscles he uses much. 

The clouds lift from John’s face immediately and he smiles back. Boyish pride radiating like staring at the sun. Endearing. He wants to please him. 

How irresistible. 

Arthur swiftly changes position, ignoring the little yelp of surprise and he swings John underneath him to practically smother him with his far more considerable weight. Tasting something slightly bitter as he invades his boy’s mouth with his tongue. John shifts beneath him, opening his legs and straining upwards. Which reminded Arthur of what he had caught John doing.

That book had said some sort of lubricant was essential. Two and two together, he had heard something wet. Arthur brings his mouth down to John’s ear. “What were you using?” Hoping he wouldn’t have to be specific. 

John has a rare moment of clarity. He reaches under the pillow and pulls out a little silver tin. Pokes Arthur in the side with it. Blindly, Arthur digs two fingers into the tin of grease and reaches down. 

Could he really do this?

Short answer. Hell yes.

He gingerly stretches out his hand. Feeling heat and hair. Reaching the furled knot of tissue so warm it was like it burned his fingers. Pressed more firmly against it, the muscle looser from John’s earlier attentions. Almost begging for it. John’s stunning little moans reach a crescendo and a guttural groan fills the tent. His limbs go entirely limp.

Arthur gently presses one finger inside him. Gently sliding in, his boy’s muscles open enough to allow the movement, but still unimaginably tight. Far more so than anything in his experience. John incoherent beneath him. Everything was more intense. The warmth hotter, the slickness more slippery, the pressure much more exquisite. He wanted to feel that around his cock, no point denying it now. Which means he has to be very, very good, to get John to allow that. But how? He has no experience in this area.

“Show me what you like, Marston”. 

John grabs his wrist and with force, shoves Arthur’s finger in right to the hilt. Sighs when he reaches the end. Pulls it out again, arranges a second finger to add to the first, then presses them both in. Roughened by desperation and desire. Definitely not made of glass.

But Arthur’s a quick study. Emboldened, he sets an almost punishing rhythm. Keep his body aloft with one hand alongside John’s torso. Not wanting to lose his balance and crush him. Feeling the cuffs of his shirt scrape the inside of John’s thighs. 

To be honest, John didn’t seem to mind. He seems almost overwhelmed. His entire body tensing around Arthur’s fingers, arching off the ground. Seemingly helpless to control the sounds coming from his mouth. One hand snaking underneath Arthur’s shirt to caress a nipple, the other reaching down to start stroking himself in earnest. Stretching up to capture Arthur’s mouth in a kiss once more, like he would die if he didn’t get more contact. 

“Oh god, Arthur. More. Please.” 

Shocked at how easily John could take it, and delighted by how much he seemed to enjoy it, Arthur complies. Feeling the ring of muscle stretch even further around the added circumference. Starting to feel more at ease with the movement now, can even pull apart his fingers slightly, to increase it even further. Loving watching John’s face as he does. He really does seem to love it. 

John opens his eyes, stares straight into his. He looks almost drunk on pleasure. 

“Arthur… fuck me.”

Arthur is pretty sure time stood still for a second. He stops his movement. He’s entirely sure he didn’t actually hear that correctly. “What did you say, Marston?”

“Fuck me. Please. Now” Bizarre.

“Are you sure?”  
John kisses him again, tensing around his still buried-fingers. Bringing his hands up to stroke his jaw and entangle the other in his hair, while Arthur expends all his effort on not moving. John turns Arthur’s head so his ear is next to his mouth.

“I want to see how good it feels to have you inside me”

Arthur can’t stop a visible shudder. His mind helpfully supplying images of himself watching his cock sliding in and out of a slim body. Imagining the sounds his boy would make. 

Decisions. Well, it’s a bit late for that.

Gently, Arthur removes his hand. John makes a plaintive sound as he gets to his knees and then stands up. He has never taken a lover through his clothes. And he was not going to start now. It seemed almost disrespectful. 

Quickly, he slides his vest off his shoulders and pulls his shirt off over his head. Sees John lying there in front of him. Naked, chest still heaving, cock straining. Watching him undress. He’s almost self conscious, John is aesthetically more beautiful than he was. Everyone said so, even with the scars on his face. Whatever his shortcomings, it was unmistakably clear that John still desired him. There was that to hold on to. 

He kicks off his boots. Pushes his unlaced trousers down to his knees and then steps out of them. Dropping to his knees between John’s spread legs, John opening them wider to accommodate him. John’s hand covered in grease as he slicks his length for him. 

Dropping his body down so he’s leaning on both elbows next to John’s head, his broad chest presses against the smaller one. Skin to skin contact, he’d read somewhere it was one of the best human pleasures. It’s hard to disagree. He lets John position him, and begins to move, ever so slowly, forwards. 

The initial breach feels so tight and so warm his eyes nearly roll back into his head. It’s obscenely good. He groans, in time with John, who is gasping like he can’t catch his breath. Still forwards, right the way to the base. Held inside his lover’s body, like he was a precious and revered thing. Ecstasy. He lifts his hips up, sliding out right to the tip, and snaps them back down again. John crying out, lifting his legs to wrap them around Arthur’s waist. Forcing him deeper, their bodies even closer together. A blissful haze surrounding them both. Arthur unsure where his being finished and John’s started. Why would he care. 

“Fuck, you feel perfect” Arthur can’t not tell him. He is perfect. Everything about his responses to his body to those delicious wails. All perfect. John being far too far gone to answer. Arthur thrusting forward with all of his weight. Not caring about being gentle, wanting to love him so badly he might just hurt him. He didn’t care. John, again, didn’t seem to care either. He met him stroke for stroke, lifting his hips up to meet Arthur’s with passion and vigor. 

John reaches down between their bodies and encircles his own cock. Starts to quickly stroke himself. Colour rising in his cheeks, his mouth slackening, his entire body wound like a coil. He must be getting close. 

Arthur wasn’t having that though. He is determined that he will be the one who gives it to him. So he pulls back onto his haunches, knocks John’s hand away. Takes his boy’s beautifully hard and leaking cock into his hand and tries his best to stroke in time with his thrusts. John seems to reach a plateau of bliss. His hands fly up to grab at the pillow behind his head. His hip movement becomes erratic, almost like he was unable to choose between the movement of Arthur’s hand and the movement inside him. 

“Arthur. So close” And he clearly was. Thank god because Arthur’s vision was narrowing. The tension in his stomach was reaching a critical point. He wouldn’t be able to hang on much longer. 

So he fucks John a bit harder, moves the hand on his cock a bit faster. It takes merely seconds before John becomes entirely rigid, crying out as his cock spurts thick ribbons over his own stomach. Arthur fucks him through it, forcing himself to keep his eyes open because he absolutely had to remember this. What it was like to watch John’s face as he rides the aftershocks of his orgasm. But, being only a man, he can’t hold back the forces of the universe any longer. 

Arthur’s orgasm is so intense he nearly passes out. Pleasure so potent it’s like being kicked by a horse. He sighs and presses his forehead against John’s. Too exhausted to keep his weight off his boy. Kisses him deeply one last time. He pulls out, rolls onto his back. Gathers his John in his arms, holding him close. Pulls the blanket over the both of them, not wanting to ruin the post-coital glow with chills.

John entwines one of his legs with Arthur’s, tucks his arm around his waist and nestles his head onto his chest. Arthur contentedly stroking his hair. Hearing his breathing return to normal, slowly. His John. 

“I meant what I said, Arthur” John sleepily mumbles into his skin.

“What did you say?”

“I’ll get better.”

Arthur smiles. He couldn’t imagine how. But one must have faith.


End file.
